


June 28, 1998

by mousaerato



Category: Homestuck
Genre: AU, Cunnilingus, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Humanstuck, Implied Character Death, Lap Sex, Oral Sex, Sibling Incest, draft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-30
Updated: 2012-11-30
Packaged: 2017-11-19 23:03:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/578587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mousaerato/pseuds/mousaerato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a flashback scene for the bigger work 'Vice.' After a few beta readers suggested I publish this to AO3 separate from the main work, I decided it would work. The final version will most likely be different, however.</p>
            </blockquote>





	June 28, 1998

**Author's Note:**

> I should probably mention that this is a DRAFT...

                …as the music died down around them, Caliborn and Damara attempted to continue a conversation. The air around them was electric, buzzing with the murmurs of couples enjoying each other’s company in the restaurant. Caliborn never _smiled_ , but for the first time, Damara got a look at what she considered a relaxed look on his face. She was surprised to see how much tension he held in his muscles seem to melt away as he took a sip of lime-infused water to wash back the taste – and the blood – of his rare steak. Damara was always attracted to him, even from the day they met seemingly eons ago, but never until that moment had she really had the opportunity to _look_ at him. It was always in sly glances without his knowledge, peeks in her peripheral vision, or in the middle of “work” where doing so could have cost her neck – literally. He was always rather informal at home, opting for a simple black shirt and slacks, but in a white dress shirt, dark green suspenders, and a dark red bow tie _only he could pull off in such a formal setting,_ she found herself paying very close attention to his looks.

                First of all, he was tall. Damara was, for a young woman, on the above average side at 5’6”. Caliborn, however, still towered over her – he had to be about 6’1”. He was bald, but by genetic hiccup. His bone structure favored no hair, with prominent cheekbones and a strong jawline. His eyes were a dark shade of brown, with the faintest flickers of deep, blood-red bronze, like lava or fire, and his brow line made him look a touch menacing even at his most placid – if he could ever _truly_ be called “placid.” He had brilliant teeth, and Damara couldn’t help but noticed that some of them looked a bit sharper than others; he looked as if he had the beginnings of fangs, if he happened to bite his lip the right way. He was muscular, but not _too bulky;_ running was a hobby he enjoyed, as she noted from their time living together. Lastly, he was permanently tan, and naturally a ruddier complexion – something Damara rarely saw in her town or area. She loved it, and especially loved the fact that those dark arms were covered in ink on the biceps – various symbols of personal significance to him. One day, she hoped to ask him a little more about them, but her heart had other questions to ask.

                She felt out of place in such a fancy place with her hair pulled into a bun and wearing what she considered a rather plain, green and embroidered dress that thankfully stopped at the knee this time, but Caliborn had a way of making her feel like she was something special. Maybe it was the way he kept his arm around her in public, as if to claim her. Maybe it was the way he walked with her in such confidence and haughtiness, as if he _knew_ that people were looking at her, but she was only looking at him. Maybe it was the way he never showed any interest in speaking to other women besides her. Whatever it was, she couldn’t help but feel genuinely attractive, not just a cheap plaything – though she was sure plenty of people pegged her as just that to him.

                She took a sip of her Shirley Temple – she couldn’t resist a red drink – and pouting her lips, became bold. “So, are we an item now?”

                “If that’s what you want to call it, yes.” Caliborn kept his voice low, but Damara couldn’t help but smile with her eyes. She understood his hesitance to acknowledge it in such a public place; in the past, someone had asked if she was his _little sister._ It was one of the few times Damara had seen a _fury_ blaze across his face. Usually, his anger ran cold and calculated. Tonight, however, he seemed practically _playful,_ and before Damara knew it, Caliborn was giving her a roguish smirk after eyeing the other tables. He knew they were too busy to be alarmed.

                “I have a question for you,” he started. “Personal one.”

                Damara felt her face get warm with anxiety as her stomach flopped.  She hoped it was simply the chicken she had ordered, but she knew that was a lie. Caliborn’s face wasn’t wrought with stress, anger, or the umbrage that seemed to permeate his entire occupation; Damara wasn’t sure how to take him seeming so happy. Still, she looked up and met his analytical gaze to answer. “Yeah?”

                “How many guys were you with before me,” he said firmly. “Tricks don’t count. The ones that mattered.”

                A brief, hazy memory of white gloves and cold hands whirred past her mind’s eye; Damara couldn’t understand it, nor why it appeared at the sound of his question. She looked down and picked at her food nervously before answering, “Just one.” She would never admit it (unless of course Caliborn asked), but it was Rufioh. Maybe that was why losing him hurt so much.

                Caliborn said nothing, and offered no feedback: he was not shocked, amused, offended, or even _angry._ In the interests of fairness and equality in their newly-christened relationship, Damara decided to level the playing field: “How about you? Prostitutes don’t count. The ones that mattered.”

                “Honestly?” he seemed to laugh at himself before his voice turned, a kind of nostalgic and sweet tone that surprised Damara’s ears as he answered. “Just one.”

* * *

                Caliborn’s upbringing was exceptionally unusual. He could not remember his parents, not due to some tragedy or accident, but because they simply were never _there._ In fact, Caliborn’s upbringing was one of utter isolation. Lavish, yes, but isolated; there were only ever two people he had contact with. One was an older doctor who always wore a white suit named Scratch, charged with executing his employers’ commands to the letter, no matter how insane they seemed. The other person was _her._

Calliope.

His sister. His twin. His antithesis. She was taller than average for a girl, lithe, and strikingly pale, with white-blonde hair she favored short and shockingly bright green eyes. She exuded warmth and kindness, filled with inspiration, enthusiasm, and _power_ with her first breath. She loved to draw, could coax a grin to even Scratch’s sinister face, and the nature of their upbringing made her sob often. Caliborn could barely recall even one day when she didn’t end up in a corner of their green, red, and gray-tone bedroom, crying and wondering why she couldn’t associate with other children. She longed to be someone else in a place far away, and even her great drawings and stories weren’t enough to make her feel any better.

                Their upbringing was one made to engender familiarity and contempt all at the same time. They were tutored together, taught by Scratch; they played outdoors in the shrouded backyard of their stone-walled  and seemingly ancient manor, covered in green and reddish-brown ivy that stretched and possessed every inch of space, but their activities were highly specialized. Calliope tended to the garden, a “ladylike” hobby, while Caliborn was encouraged to run, play ball with Scratch, and be aggressive. They ate dinner together in a small, green and red kitchen, always Caliborn at the red and Calliope at the green, practicing etiquette for visitors who would never come. Calliope excelled at the genteel mannerisms that marked a cultured upbringing; Caliborn found the rules arbitrary and therefore not useful to him. After all, this was the nineties; there was no need for aristocracy, and no need for culture if guests were never to come.

                Every moment of their day was spent together, seemingly to prepare them for a competition. Each one had their own unique, highly gendered advantages: Caliborn was aggressive, active, strong, a “born leader”; Calliope was passive, permissive, pacifistic, and more content with following in making strong ties to others - especially Scratch. While he was firm towards Caliborn and respected him as he grew, he always seemed to have a soft spot and weakness for Calliope when they were young, and Caliborn grew to loathe it. Still, they were family, bound together by rules they did not choose and could not understand. They were never allowed to leave their home – Scratch provided all they needed, when they needed it, just as he was instructed.

                While Calliope became withdrawn and sad, Caliborn became hostile, angry, and hateful. He never fully understood her sister’s empathy; her fascination with other creatures and care for the hurt and wounded animals they’d see during their brief walks around town struck him as alien. He couldn’t fathom how anyone could look at a dead bird or a hurt cat and feel anything besides indifference. Calliope always seemed willing to pour out her heart, and something about it made him hate _her_ more than anything else.

                His hatred boiled slowly, bubbling as time went on. With every shared meal, every time they were made to bathe each other, with every night when they fell asleep in the one full-sized bed their shared room had. He loathed her weakness, her empathy, her passivity, her inescapability. When they were young, he would sleep in a black t-shirt and red shorts, and inevitably, she would end up pressed against him, clinging to him for body heat, her white and femininely-cut tank top and green shorts a complete contrast to him. She seemed always too close, too pressed into his skin, and as the years progressed and he began to sleep in only his red boxers, it became literal. With every night that Calliope’s cold and slender arms found their way around his developing frame, he thought of another way to kill her as his blood throbbed through him in a seething, calculated rage. He regarded her, the only woman he knew, as chained to him, binding him down to a life of desperation and unfulfilled potential – and as someone who had to die so that he could truly live.

                 He swore at last that it would happen before they turned 17 in December, a little over five months from that night. He would kill her; destroy the ritualistic monotony that dictated their lives like the unchanging motions of a clock’s pendulum. He would see her die at his hands and watch as a pale, weak, and feminine duplicate of him who shared far too many features would disappear and erase the tension, madness, and sickness from them both. He knew how it would go and it thrilled him, sent chills of excitement and anticipation down his spine as he dreamed of how it would feel to dig into her, to fight her, to watch her breathe her last, labored breath. The image of his final victory was the thought that helped him go to sleep at night before he and Calliope dimmed the silvery, old lamp in their room (which Calliope kept on out of habit) and fell asleep together, just as they always had for the last 16 years of their lives.

                Caliborn was, save for when cool limbs would skim his for warmth, a sound sleeper. He woke in the middle of that warm June night to something else entirely. In the lighter phases of sleep, Caliborn heard the small squeaks of bedsprings and felt a shift in weight. He didn’t pay much attention to it, assuming it was “Callie” moving around restlessly again. She always had a tendency to dream vividly and deeply; it was as if she had found another world in her head. He straightened out flat onto his back and tried to rest again, never opening his eyes. Just as he felt the world start to slip away, he felt a weight upon him, followed soon by the feeling of air tickling under his nose and his breath stifling.

                He opened his eyes, still in a daze, to see two arms on either side of him, pale hands pressed palms down against the mattress on the sides of his head, and an all-too-familiar face partially illuminated by the lamp, near-white hair practically aglow, eyes shut with her mouth pressed softly against his.

                Any semblance of sleepiness left Caliborn with a shock as his eyes quickly widened, bewildered. Every muscle in his body tensed as his sister’s eyes opened, bright and green meeting the brown in his.

                He rasped out, uncertain and pressured. “Callie, what the—“

                “Shut up,” she commanded in a whisper, cutting him off with another kiss on the lips, soft and panicked and quick. It was the single most aggressive thing she had ever said to him, and even with that, it wasn’t so much a demand, but a _plea._ Her voice, small and scared, didn’t command authority, but rather seemed to beg him, invite him. She stole peck after kiss, over and over, and as Caliborn brought his hands to hover at her sides, he wasn’t sure what he was going to do. Every one of Calliope’s kisses was sweet, intoxicating, confusing, and seemed to beckon to him: _please, tell me you’ve thought about this._ His anger and rage had melted from him without his volition, and unconsciously, he let his hands clasp at her hips, tan skin still a contrast to her white tank top even in shadow.

                Was this the first time she had done this while he was resting? How long had she wondered? _How did she know all this?_ Maybe he too was curious, in a dark part of his mind, mixed seamlessly into the pitch-black ink of hatred that permeated and coated that gray matter. If it was there, it was too thoroughly mixed with everything else; a never-ending swirl into entropy. At that moment when he truly realized their lips had met – the first time that anyone had kissed him - something in that blackened, tar-dark contempt moved, shifted, changed.

                Caliborn found himself kissing back, bringing his head up just enough with each lingering connection to show his responsiveness. Still their kisses were chaste and innocent, but as Caliborn’s fingers inched up Calliope’s back, Calliope let her torso rest against his, pinning him (as much as a girl as light as she could) with her weight against his firm chest. It was the last nudge Caliborn needed to be bold; he let the tip of his tongue brush Calliope’s top lip as a random thought, and she let out a pleased hum as she parted her lips to grant him entrance, uncertain of why she knew to do it, why somewhere in her mind she managed to think of it. Every smack of unpracticed, restless lips echoed in the silence, and each exchange of tongues made Calliope warm and flustered, hands rubbing at his unclothed shoulders, trying to feel at the muscle in his arms.

                Calliope broke the kiss at last, opting to be bold. She started to plant soft kisses to Caliborn’s cheek, then to his jaw line, and finally down his neck. No one had ever touched him that way, and his body responded enthusiastically, hips bucking up instantaneously to get some kind of friction to alleviate the erection tenting his boxers. His fingers found their way under the hem of Calliope’s shirt as he looked at her; she had stopped kissing him, her face pleasantly pink in contrast to her adoring green eyes, and the way she licked at her lips let him know she was as hot – uncomfortably, unbearably hot – as he was.

                “Should I…” he started, tugging lightly at the white top.

                “Please,” she huffed, voice full of desperation. Something in him couldn’t _stand_ to hear that sadness in her voice at that moment, so he gently lifted the shirt from her frame, careful and considerate as he heard her sigh with pleasure, legs shaking and tightening around his hips. He tossed the shirt to the floor and looked at her, still not entirely believing what was happening. Sure, he had seen his sister topless before with all the times he had helped her bathe, but he never really _looked_ at her. He let his thumbs rub encouraging circles into her hips, earning a low, throaty kind of noise from Calliope, whose eyes fluttered shut as he brought his hands up, fingers gently caressing the soft skin of her small stomach.

                “Open your eyes,” he instructed, not sure what to do as he sat up and reached her breasts, small, but inviting. With difficulty, she complied, hands coming from their place fisting the sheets to rest on each of Caliborn’s forearms. His brown eyes were uncertain, cautious, and for the first time in his life, _scared._ She knew him well enough to understand that without the nervous eyes or tense mouth, and squeaked to him, “Do it, go ahead.” Her voice quivered with each syllable. Caliborn didn’t need to be told twice, bringing dark hands to her pale breasts, kneading curiously at the soft, supple, and hot flesh, both at the same time. Calliope’s green eyes squeezed shut as his touches became more confident, more precise, eventually letting her head fall back as the pads of Caliborn’s fingers rubbed over her nipples, making them hard.

                He still couldn’t believe what he was doing, but something in him urged him onward, eventually bringing his mouth to a breast to kiss and lick at the sweet skin. Calliope’s hand, now noticeably _hot,_ gripped the back of his head as another wrapped around him for purchase. When he took a nipple into his mouth and sucked, lavishing it with his tongue, he earned a gasp followed by a shrill _moan_ of pleasure. She raked at his back with blunt nails, gasping and panting with anticipation, and when Calliope stopped him to kiss him _forcefully_ on the mouth, Caliborn couldn’t take it anymore.

                “Lie down, lie down,” he urged in a whisper, helping her to roll onto her back gently. He took her small wrists up in one hand, holding them down as he kissed her again, passionate and enthusiastic. He couldn’t get enough of tasting her. He had no idea how to do anything that was going through his mind, but he wanted to try. Remembering what she had done to him, he let the tip of his tongue slide down her neck, earning a beautiful shudder and needy whine from her. He worked his way down to her prominent collarbones, kissing and nipping at those beautiful breasts for a moment before dipping lower, eventually reaching the elastic of her green, silken panties.

                As he began to tug at the fabric, getting ready to slide them away, Caliborn looked up at his sister. She was flushed, shaking; she kept biting at her lip and grasping at the sheets for dear life, and he noticed ever so slightly that _tears_ were welling up in those beautiful, shockingly green and expressive eyes. When the tears began to roll down pink cheeks, he was overwhelmed by two feelings: first, confusion, and second, _arousal._ As if he needed anything else to make his blood pool south, Caliborn had learned he was a dacryphile, loving the way her eyes shimmered with tears in the light.

                “Caliborn…” she huffed, voice weak and small. “What are you _doing_?”

                “I…just feel like I should,” he replied, positioning himself between her legs and running a finger over the dark, damp spot of her panties. It was so small a motion, barely perceptible, but Calliope was agonizingly aroused, desperate, and wet that she _moaned,_ toes curling up and cracking loudly. When her eyes slammed shut again, scrunching her face up, he could see more tears beginning to form in the corners of her eyes. He throbbed; he had to do it again.

                He took the tips of his middle and index fingers and circled over her still covered clit, earning him another groan and full-body shake. He continued, letting his free left hand finger at the elastic of her panties, teasing and begging her to let him pull them away.

                She screamed again in pleasure, a kind of yelp, and while she brought a hand to the back of his head, she rasped, “Doc’s going to hear us, he’s going to k-“

                “It’s fine, it's fine, he’s not here,” Caliborn cooed, voice still not above a whisper. “He’s not going to know, I promise,” he said in a low voice, just as assuredly as it was lustful. He kissed at the wet fabric, suckling a little to get the savory, sweet flavor onto his tongue. “Is this okay?”

                “Y-yeah,” she offered, voice so ghost-like and quivering it made Caliborn feel undone. He didn't need to be told twice, as he slipped off the last piece of material that kept her separated from his ministrations. “It’s…it’s good…”

                He hummed in approval, dipping his head between her legs to kiss and rub at her thighs, unbelievably warm under his big hands. She brought her knees up to his shoulders, ankles crossing and keeping him practically in a vice. Caliborn took it as a sign to continue, so he tentatively slid a finger between her folds, licking at his fingers before lapping at her, slow and steady and reverent. She sighed heavily, but when his two fingers accidentally came in contact with her entrance, she _moaned,_ mewling at the loss of sensation. He looked up at her, never once stopping the ministrations with his tongue, and cautiously slipped his index finger inside of her, watching for her small reactions on her face.

                “Oh, _fuck,”_ she said with a bite, eyes slamming shut; it was the first time Caliborn had ever heard her swear, and it went straight to his dick as he worked inside of her, probing and stretching at her, marveling at her heat.

                “God, Callie you’re so wet,” he muttered to himself, pressing another finger inside of her. “Is that too much?”

                “No, no, no,” she rattled off, aroused to the point of madness. “That’s, th-that’s good, just don’t stop…”

                He smiled into her skin, still scared, but too turned on to think about it as he offered one last lick at her before suckling lightly at her clit, swirling his tongue along with strokes of his fingers inside of her. She started to spasm, tightening around his fingers, and _keening,_ grasping at his head to push his tongue harder to her skin. As he hummed with arousal and approval, she screamed his name, squeaking until she let out a silent yell, tightening her thighs around him and shuddering as she came, Caliborn enjoying the sticky feel and taste of her fluids on him.

                When he came back up to look at her, he slid off his boxers as she kissed him breathlessly, tasting herself on him. Caliborn stroked at her shaking legs after she calmed down, positioning himself to enter her. He couldn’t believe what was happening, couldn’t believe what he had just done, but it was lovely, intoxicating, thrilling to see her lose herself, to feel her against his mouth and fingers, to watch her become putty under him. He loved that overwhelmed face, and wanted to see it happen again and again and again.

                Calliope gripped at Caliborn’s sides instinctively as he rubbed the head of his cock against her oversensitive clit, begging to be allowed to enter her, to try, to have some sense of release. She looked at him, dark eyes practically black from his dilated bedroom eyes, and it took every ounce of strength in her to plead to him, “No, no, not like that—“

                “What’s wrong?” Caliborn whispered, rasped. Neither of them had done this, gone this far before, and with no discernible reference to anyone else, Caliborn assumed they were both completely naïve. He wondered if he had done something wrong. Without his permission, another thought came to him: _why do I care so much?_  

                “Sit down, I, don’t want it to be like this…”

                They found themselves switching places, Caliborn sitting up with a straight back against the headboard. Calliope, body still small and covered in sweat and the scent of sex, placed a hand at the base of his penis, earning a long, drawn out sigh as she laid on her stomach, head between his legs, watching his face change with intense fascination. As she stroked him with a slick hand using her own fluids, both of them became scared and intimidated.

                Caliborn wasn’t aware of it (and wouldn’t be for a long time), but he was exceptionally well-endowed; thick, at _least_ eight inches long, too. The two of them realized at the same time that it didn’t look like it would work.

                “Callie, are you sure…” his voice trailed off as she squeezed at him.

                “Mmhmm,” she hummed, “I want this.” She let her lips ghost over the tip of his cock and gave it a small, tentative lick, earning her a shuddered, shaking sigh of approval. The second lick was longer, swirling around the tip’s girth as spit pooled in her mouth, making everything wet. Withdrawing her mouth, she worked him with her hand for a while, squeezing at him in the spots he responded most to. Caliborn thought it a terrible tease, and wove a tan hand into her light hair, pushing her mouth onto his cock again. She licked and sucked at the tip and tried to take his length back into her mouth.

                She couldn’t. She tried, bobbing her head and adding as much pressure and spit as possible, but gagged repeatedly, tightening around his cock. She opened her eyes, and Caliborn saw an image that burned itself into his memory forever: his twin, his sister, his sweet little Calliope that he hated so fucking much and yet wanted _so badly,_ with her little polite mouth stretched out and full of his dick. Her eyes were wide open, looking at him for some kind of approval, guidance, and the repeated, abortive gagging had made her eyes well with tears again. It took a singular act of will not to yank at her hair and make her gag on him, getting him wet with thick spit, again. Either way, the sight was almost unbearable, and if he hadn’t stopped her, he would have filled that stuck-up and sweet little mouth full of his seed.

                “Callie…stop…”

                With a pop, she took her mouth away from him, and he shuddered at the loss of sensation. He pulled her back onto her knees, letting her bring them to both sides of him, just as she wanted. Calliope put her arms around his neck for a brief moment, loving the feel of his skin against hers.

                Caliborn used his hands to steady her, trying his best to soothe her as she guided herself on top of him. Calliope choked out a sob as she started, feeling something hard and hot penetrate her. Caliborn wanted to look at her face, wanted to see her eyes shut and mouth twist, but he couldn’t stop staring at the sight of his cock being slowly sheathed by tight, wet heat and pressure as Calliope’s groin went flush against his. He gripped at her, gasping at the sensation, and she embraced him in kind, breasts pressing against his chest.

                When he felt his cock push against and _break_ something in her, they both opened their eyes and stared at each other, both hissing at the sensation like snakes. Calliope’s eyes were full of tears, and he kissed at her cheeks, kissed her mouth, getting the taste of her tongue, her slit, and salt in his mouth all over again. She clutched at him desperately, trying not to weep. His hands stayed at her hips, not forcing her to bob on him, but swayed her until she was willing to move.

                “Does it hurt?” he asked.

                “A little,” she lied. He knew how much it had to hurt from the grimace on her face. “Are you okay?”

                “Yeah,” he managed to huff out, overwhelmed and practically speechless. “You feel so good…”

                “You do too,” she replied, letting her head rest against his shoulder. He brought his arms around her, attempting to cradle her, helping her to find the speed and angle she wanted.  Something in his stomach turned as he felt himself move inside of her, a combination of fear and vulnerability, a trace of anger and lust and love _\-- was_ it love? Caliborn couldn’t understand why people cried over it, fought for it, did so much in its name, but this…this had to be something, had to be that elusive _thing_ he could never identify, never place, never explain.

                Her pace was slow, but the pressure and _intimacy_ of it made Caliborn feel close to coming as soon as she started. This was what she wanted: her straddling his lap, him holding her, watching as she bought him the edge, as she brought herself over the edge, not two parts at war, but two people wonderfully equal, moving together as if one with each imprecise, needy, clinging, and noisy step.

                In that moment, they were fully part of each other, fully equal, one filling the void in the other, in every sense. Calliope saw in her brother’s closed eyes and face _peace,_ and when Caliborn opened his, he saw for the first time the look of his sister desperate, aggressive, daring. Was this what he had wanted? Had he wondered about it too?

                “Fuck, Callie, I—“ he huffed, catching a hand in her hair as she had learned to steady herself as she rode him, faster and faster…

                “Do it, do it, please,” she begged, commanded. He knew he was close, knew he was going to come.

                She wrapped her legs around him tight, bringing her arms around him, and muttered with such sincerity, “I love you…I love you so much…” That, and the look of ecstasy mixed with tears in those green eyes was finally enough to push him over.

                Caliborn felt himself come, spilling himself inside of her she seized up around him, kissing him senseless as he came back from his whole world turning white. He fell back, slipping and slinking down onto his side, with Calliope laying similarly to look him in the eyes, his arms pulling her close.

                “I really _do_ love you, you know,” she whispered after an eternity of silence. Caliborn’s only response was to run fingers through her hair and let her press into him. As the post-orgasmic haze left him, he knew something in him had changed. He suddenly became cognizant of his own mortality, his smallness, the magnitude of the world -- and it crushed him, threatening to swallow him up like a black hole. He looked at her as she rested, so peaceful and spent and pleased, and knew that it was her fault.

                She was the most powerful thing in his life, and it threatened him. More than that, he knew he would never, ever share her.

* * *

                The next morning, he awoke before she did and watched her, looming over her face as she did with him the night before. It felt right, fitting, _justified._ Calliope opened her eyes and smiled as Caliborn wordlessly brought his mouth to hers and kissed her, softly, sweetly, and slowly, hands clasped softly at her shoulders in honor of the last night. He never once closed his eyes, and when she finally shut hers in a blissful trance, he made his move. His right hand came gently to her throat, and his left pinched her nose shut. He never stopped kissing her, even as her eyes opened and his right hand pressed down to crush and squeeze her throat.

                She was his first everything: first friend, first enemy, first hatred, first love, first _lover,_ first murder.


End file.
